


Ode to the Derrière of the Man With the Curly Hair.

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, Bums, Buuuut I'm really not., By the way - this isn't actually an ode...I just liked the sound of the title!, I'd say I'm sorry..., It truely is just bums and smut!, John's appreciation of said bum, Like-serious worshipping kind of appreciation, M/M, Many other names for Bums, Okay maybe a teeny-tiny one, Sherlock's bum in particular, There seriously is no plot wahtsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: "...Had you asked John if he had a favourite part of the human body he would have been hard pressed giving you a list of preferred parts, let alone just one.That was until he moved into 220C Baker Street."This is the story of how a man with curly hair and a perfect bum changed John Watson's life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [logotrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/logotrix/gifts).



> After Sherlock spent an alarming amount of time admiring Johns pert behind in ‘Quickly Burning’, Logotrix asked if I could possibly write something about Sherlock's pert arse and his very much appreciated fitted trousers. So here it is, for Logotrix - (and of course all my other readers) - a story about Sherlock's bum!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

John Watson knew the human body.  He had studied it, closely, from the day his girlfriend let a fifteen year old him look at her breasts in the kitchen of her parents house.  At the time he had been speechless and had awed at what he was given the privilege of seeing.  Of course, he had been clumsy and when he had been granted permission to touch them he had squeezed them too hard, which earned him a slap in the face and the title of being single again, but that was fine, because from that point on John had developed a brand spanking new appreciation for the living, breathing, moving, growing form that was the human body.  

Over the years he had more chances to explore it.  There were girlfriends and the odd boyfriend who allowed him to study their body inch by inch, looking and listening, touching and tasting and smelling.  Then there was medical school where he got to study the body from the inside out, appreciating it even more for the complexities it achieved every day.  

From observing the bodies he quickly became aware of what felt bad ( a hard, clumsy grope around tender breasts) and what felt good (the soft brush of newly formed stubble against the inside of a thigh) and this led him to having a variety of different partners from which to admire and expand his ever increasing knowledge from.  Some older, some younger, male and female, small and petite or round and curvaceous.  They came in a variety of different shapes, colours and textures and each one was beautiful.  

University allowed John to build up his appreciation for the human form and learn what made it tick, what made it feel good.  Joining the army allowed him to unleash his knowledge and talents across the globe - Europe, Asia and Australia to be exact, plus a few small islands in between.

John couldn’t help it.  Whether he got to touch a person or just admire them from afar, he truely did love the human body and had you asked John if he had a favourite part of the human body he would have been hard pressed giving you a list of preferred parts, let alone just one. 

That was until he moved into 220C Baker Street.  

John had been discharged from the army with a limp, a tremor and a very small bank balance.  It had been pure luck, that not even two months after returning to London he had run into an old friend of his, Mike Stamford, in Russell Square Gardens.  It was even greater luck that he and his wife owned a block of flats in central London and one of the apartments had just become available which Mike was happy to offer him at a discount price.  After all, it had been John’s extensive (and free) tutoring that had got him through his exams all those years ago.  It was the least he could do for a friend in need.

So it was as John was making his morning tea in the small kitchen of his small basement apartment, not even a fortnight after moving into his new flat, looking out of the window that was level with the sidewalk, watching the lower legs of the morning commuters travel to the bus stop or to the Tube which would whisk them off to work for the day, when suddenly there was a bottom in his view.  It was a very nice bottom, clad in rather tight, fitted black slacks, directed towards his window as the owner of said bottom fiddled with something on the ground.  A few seconds later and the legs that supported that bottom stood up and before they got a chance to walk away, John leant further towards the window and glanced up to see a head of artfully styled, dark curls and then the figure was gone, lost beyond the view of Johns little kitchen window, over looking Baker Street.  

The following morning, the same thing happened.  At first, there were people strolling past at varying different speeds and then suddenly, there was a backside.  A wonderful, plump backside, this time clothed in tight, navy blue.  After a few seconds, no longer than ten, the bottom lifted from Johns limited view and walked away.  

Every morning for the next four mornings this happened.  Each day the bottom was there and then was gone, and each day John grew to really appreciate that bottom, more and more and more, to the point where he had started fantasising reaching through the glass ( _which he knew was impossible, but it was a fantasy_ ) and giving it a nice firm squeeze.  He even found himself looking forward to it, making sure he was standing at his window, each morning, tea in hand.  And not once was he let down.  Until morning seven.  It was that morning that Mr Posterior decided to wear a coat.  

Despite John still being able to tell that the owner of the coat clad rump was indeed the owner of the normally perfectly tailored trouser clad tush, ( _face it, who else would squat down in front of his window at 8:15 every morning_ ), he was utterly disappointed.  That perfectly rounded rear had become somewhat of a ritual for John and it perked up his usually dismal mood and gave a decent start to his day.  Now the slightly chilly weather had taken that away.  

With a sigh, John waited for the man to stand up and walk away, as he did every morning, before he finished the last of his tea and went about getting dressed for the day.

It was three days later (two days of seeing a coat shrouded behind and then one day of nothing) that John was walking home from Tesco, plastic bag swinging in his free hand as he limped along, when he looked up to see a very familiar sight.  Not too far ahead of him was a head of artfully styled, dark curls.  Without consent from his brain, Johns eyes dropped down and was pleased to see a very enticing and quit familiar derrière, unencumbered by a woollen coat, walking ahead of him.  The extremely tight cut of the trousers highlighted the rounded cheeks perfectly, allowing for the material to sit perfectly to frame the plump muscles that seemed to be too much, yet just perfect for the lithe body that housed such a perfect specimen of gluteus maximus.

The view was short lived as the owner of the deliciously firm rear crossed the street and ducked into Speedy’s, the little cafe across from Johns apartment.  With a longing sort of sigh, John stared at the now bum free shopfront and then turned into his own apartment, trying to think of what to do with the chicken he had bought for dinner.

From that day on John started to see the man more regularly, never his front, only ever the back of him.  At first it was just every now and then and after a week, it became a daily thing.  He no longer stopped in front of Johns window, which was a crying shame as far as John was concerned, but he was walking around his street.  Sometimes coming as John was going and other times going as John was coming and even when it was surrounded by the dark woollen folds of his coat, John could still make out the distinct shape of a perfectly formed arse.  

Unfortunately for John, the more he saw this bottom the more his dreams seemed to be centred around it.  At first it was just like the day coming home from Tesco.  He would follow the owner of the bum to wherever his dreams felt like taking him.  Then the dreams started getting a bit more saucy.  He dreamt that the bum was moving, swaying, left to right, just gently as its owner walked on ahead, then it started getting a bit racy, doing small gyrations and little shimmies.  After a fortnight of dreams Johns subconscious finally decided to disrobe the bum and his head was filled with visions of soft, smooth, pale skin, stretched over two firm muscular globes and John finally got to touch, even if it was only in his dreams.  

In his dreams his hands fit perfectly over the mounds and they felt firm to touch.  In his dreams, when he rolled his palms over the solid flesh a deep groan came from a faceless owner and when John looked up it was to see a head of dark curls arching back, moaning for more.  It was usually then that his subconscious ran out of fuel and he woke up, a bit too hard to be able to comfortably go back to sleep.

For seven weeks John caught fleeting glimpses of the man with the curly hair and impeccable hindquarters and had resigned himself to the fact that that was all he was ever going to get in real life.  Fleeting glimpses.  

Then something wonderful happened.

John doesn’t know what made him cut down the alley way that day, instead of walking all the way around Allsop Place, to Baker Street, but take the alley way he did and as it turned out, a good thing it was too.  

As he neared the middle of the alley he noted someone up ahead, standing flat against the wall.  John was going to choose to ignore it, as the man seemed rather preoccupied with something, but then a glint of light caught his eye and as John got closer, slowing and muffling his footsteps on instinct, he noted that the man had a gun in his hands.

Now, any other man would have turned and quickly walked away, maybe to ring the police once he was at a safe distance, but John Watson was what he liked to call brave  _(which translated into the word_ idiot _in anyone else’s vocabulary_ ) and it had been far too long since he had had the chance to be brave ( _nee, idiotic_ ) - so instead of backing away and calling the police like any sane individual would do, he also flattened himself against the wall and inched himself closer to the man with the gun, gripping his cane, the only form of weapon that he had, tight in his hand.  It was a blessing that the man with the gun was so preoccupied on whatever his target was that he didn’t notice that John had moved right up next to him, less than 12 inches between them.  

He leaned forward and looked towards where the man was observing and it was just then that Mr Posterior stepped out of the flat directly across from Johns own apartment and that was then the gunman shifted and went to raise the weapon in his hand.  

It was without thought that John brought his cane up and sent it crashing into the guys shoulder, only to bring it back up and catch him behind the knees, dropping the man and the cane to the ground and disarming the gunman, so the gun was now steadily in Johns hands, trained on the man who was now hissing and cursing on the ground, glaring up at him with murder in his eyes.  

“You fucking arsehole” the man gritted between clenched teeth, trying to mask the pain smarting from his more-than-likely sprained wrist.  “I’ll fucking kill you too, you fucking…”

John shut him up with a kick to the side.  “I doubt that very much, especially since I’m the one holding the gun” John said down at the man who was now trying to curl in on himself.  

As a general rule, it amazed John how much people ignored.  A scuffle, right in the mouth of an alley way, with a gun no less, and so far John had counted four people who had just walked on past.  He wasn’t sure if violence had become such a norm that people didn’t notice it anymore or if it was the fact that people used their busy lives to purposefully ignore the battleground that was, unfortunately, the horrors of real life.  He suspected the latter and found himself grateful for peoples ignorance, just this once.  Only, his relief at not being noticed, as right then it surely looked like John was mugging the man, was not to last long as when he looked up, Mr Posterior was walking his way, obviously having heard the scuffle, and while John should have been panicking ( _he was holding what was most probably an unlicensed gun at an injured man, after all_ ) he couldn’t help but be somewhat mesmerised at the sight heading towards him.  

Had John thought the mans back nether regions had been something to admire, then the face that belonged to the owner of that ridiculous rear was something else altogether.  

The man was pale with light eyes, hard to tell the exact colour from this distance.  His face was long and was set off by the most beautiful zygomatic arches he had ever seen, and he had seen many a cheekbone in his time.  These were nothing though, compared to the mans mouth.  The top lip was beautifully defined by a deep cupids bow and the bottom lip was just as plump as the mans backside.  

In all, the man was perfect.  And he was heading straight for John.  

John had a fleeting desire to turn and run.  If he was to be taken in to custody for assault and possession of an illegal firearm, then the police might search his flat which would lead them to yet another illegal firearm, this one actually belonging to him.  But as it was, Mr Apparently Perfect had locked his eyes on John and John knew that, short of moving house ( _or possibly leaving the country_ ) there was no way this man was not going to be able to identify him.  Maybe he would believe Johns story, despite what it currently looked like.  

Just as the man with the curly hair stepped off of the road he had just crossed and up onto the kerb in front of John, John opened his mouth to explain, but the now very familiar stranger got in first.

“It appears I owe you a great thanks” he stated, still looking towards John and had John had the sense to feel confused over the words, he probably would have responded, but as it was, he was mentally cataloguing all the ways the mans voice affected his body.  The way it poured out of his mouth, smoother than silk and darker than night. - just as sinful as the two of them as well - and sending his Erector Pili muscles into overdrive, causing every tiny hair on his body to stand on end as a shiver of pure sensuality ran down his spine.  “Not that I believe he would have hit me from the angle he would have had to have been standing, but there was always the possibility he would get lucky.”

“Y…you’re welcome?” John finally replied, not sure if it was the right thing to say and unable to tear his eyes away from the man who seemed to have moved from a rather nonchalant expression to one of piqued interested as he studied John.  

“Luck had nothing to do with it.  I would have got you, you fucking bastard, had this cun…”

Again, the man on the ground was stopped by John, kicking him in the side.  “When someone has a gun pointed at your head, the smart thing to do is to keep your mouth shut.”

“Interesting” John heard murmured and he looked up to see that the mans curious gaze had intensified.

“What?” John asked.  Surely he wasn’t talking about John.  There were lots of words to describe John. Loyal, easy going, sensible ( _most of the time_ ) practical,…broken.  Interesting was definitely not one of them.  

“You” the man snapped thoughtfully, straightening his head and looking out onto the street.

“Not really” John replied, his head turning to the man on the ground as he saw him trying to move out of the corner of his eye.  The glare that John shot him stopped him mid shuffle and he slumped back down to the supine position he had been previously, laying on the dirty floor in the alley way.

“How did you know I wasn’t some lowlife serial killer and he was here to take me out?” The stranger asked, turning back to John.

“Lucky guess.”  The man studied John again, taking a step closer.  John, feeling nervous for some reason about the questioning, resisted the urge to take a step back.  The truth was, he hadn’t even thought about why the man on the ground had been trying to shoot the man with the perfect bottom, only that it would have been such a pity had John not been able to view that bottom any more.  

“How could you possibly know that there wasn’t another shooter?”

“Took my chances.”  Once more, John hadn’t anticipated that the man wasn’t working alone and despite now feeling a different sort of prickling sensation in the back of his neck, this one not at all pleasant, he refused to turn from the person in front of him, in order to look around for other would be attackers.

“How could you possibly know you weren’t up against some trained assassin who would have taken you out without barely lifting a finger?”

At this, John couldn’t help the snort of laughter.  That one had been a no-brainer.  “I managed to sneak right up to him without him noticing, and then there was the way he aimed his gun, wrist slightly twisted to cater for the absurd position he was standing in while trying not to be seen.  He is not a trained assassin.  He is someone who has watched too many action movies.”

“Fuck you, arsehol…”

This time, the kick came from the other mans perfectly tailored feet.  

“Sherlock Holmes” the man said, holding out his hand, which John noticed, was also quite elegant.

“John Watson” John replied, taking the hand in his small, calloused, unoccupied one and giving it a shake.

“Well, John Watson, as I said, it seems I owe you thanks.  Do you like Italian?”

“Umm, yes?”  John had no idea what was going on.  Surely the man wasn’t asking him out to dinner.  

John didn’t get a response from Mr Posterior, _Sherlock_ , as he had let go of Johns hand and was pulling his phone out of his pocket.

“Don’t speak Lestrade, just listen” he said into the phone, sounding exceedingly annoyed.  “I need a car, preferably with only minorly annoying officers at the alley way across from 215 Baker Street…  No.  Nothing… Why do you always assume it was me? … Oh, god, seriously, you’re bringing this up now?…No, if you must know, I have Bailey Newton’s younger brother here….What?…No!  Why on earth would I do that?…Oh, god, would you shut up for five seconds.  Mr Newton is here after being taken down by a retired army veteran after trying to shoot me as I came out of my flat, so if you could maybe send someone to come and collect him as I am not standing here all day, and neither is Doctor Watson as we have a dinner reservation in half an hour.  …What do you mean who is… The man who disarmed the idiot with a gun, is that seriously what you are most concerned about? …Oh, good, any time would be lovely, thank you” he finished off sarcastically and with that he hung up and placed the phone back in his pocket but not before firing off a quick text.

“Why are people so tedious?” he asked looking down at Newton with a somewhat disgusted look on his face and then up at John, the look dropping from disgust to something that could almost be construed as fondness.

“How did you know all that?”  John asked, not really caring about the way Sherlock looked at this moment.  He had never met the man before ten minutes ago and he knew that, not only was John a doctor ( _unemployed_ ) but had also been ( _not was_ ) a solider.  Why did he know that?

“All what?” Sherlock asked, looking as if what he had just told the man on the phone about a man he had just met was perfectly normal.

“About me…about being a retired Vet.   You called me _Doctor_ Watson.”

Sherlock flapped his hand as if Johns questions were inconsequential, which left him feeling a bit bristled.  “The soldier was easy.  Posture, haircut, tan, the way you handle the gun.  Retired obviously as previously I have seen you walking with a cane.  That and the other day you flinched and looked for cover when a car backfire.  A clear sign of PTSD if I have ever seen one” he rattled off and John had the sudden realisation that he wasn’t the only one who had been secretly sneaking glances at strange men on the street.  “The doctor, though, that was a bit of a lucky guess.  You disarmed Mr Newton here, but only sprained his wrist.  You know how to injure without causing permanent damage.  Most people would have done more damage or none at all.  Then when you kicked him in the ribs before, again, you knew exactly where to hit in order to be effective, but not damaging.   Both times you pulled back from actually really hurting him more than what is necessary to keep him incapacitated. I on the other hand just kicked wherever, not caring what pain I inflicted.  You clearly know your way around the human body, but take no pleasure in damaging it.  You could have been some form of other health care worker, maybe physiotherapist, but added with injured army with psychosomatic limp and the odds were stacked in the favour of you being a doctor.  Quite clear actually.”

“How could you possibly know the limp was psychosomatic?”

“You stance is evenly distributed and you haven’t even looked at your cane in the past fifteen minutes at least, ergo, psychosomatic - or at least partly.”

John parsed all that he had just heard spew from this beautiful mans mouth and the only thing he could come up with was “Brilliant.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, sounding somewhat shocked.  “That’s not what people usually say.”

John had a hard time believing that.  How could people not find it brilliant?  “What do they normally say?”

“Piss off you fucking frea…”

It was John who kicked the man again and he wasn’t surprised to see that, yes, he did in fact hold back from landing a full blow.  Obviously, it had been a subconscious decision.

The man moaned and started in on a tirade about brutality, but neither John nor Sherlock were listening as just then a car with flashing lights pulled up in front of the alley way.

“What the fuck have you gone and got yourself into this time?” a man with grey hair asked as he stepped out of the car and headed towards Sherlock.  

“I was just heading down to the shops to get milk.  I had no play in this, what so ever” Sherlock replied, sounding affronted at being accused of things he clearly had no role in.  “The man is obviously rather annoyed that I proved his brother was guilty of beating their mother to death.”

“You expect me to believe that?”  the man asked.  

“It’s true” John interjected.  “I spotted the man as I was walking down the alley way, on my way home.  Sherlock had no idea the man was there at all.”

The new man, obviously a cop, looked from Sherlock to John, giving him a quick once over, and John realised he was still holding the gun, aimed at the man on the ground.  “That I’d believe, but this berk wouldn’t know where a Tesco’s was if his life depended on it and even if he did, he certainly wouldn’t know how to get to the milk isle.”

At this a giggle slipped out of Johns mouth, but was quickly silenced as he observed the petulant scowl Sherlock was directing at the police officer.  

“That your gun?” the man asked, nodding down at John’s hand, ignoring the sulk that seemed to have settled over Sherlock.

John looked down at the gun in his hand.  “Ah, no.  No, it’s not.  Belongs to this man here, actually” and John nudged the man at his feet with the tip of his shoe.  

Just then another police car joined the first one blocking the alley way.  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind.  I suppose you know how to turn the safety off and eject the clip” the cop asked, pulling a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket.  

John didn’t answer.  He just demonstrated that he did indeed know how to do those things and placed the pieces carefully in the bag as two uniformed police officers joined them and were instructed to take the man on the ground away.

“I’m going to need statements, Sherlock, otherwise I will have nothing to charge him with.”

“Illegal possession of an unlicensed weapon” Sherlock responded straight away.

“Yeah, which has got your boyfriends finger prints all over it.”

“I’m not his boyfriend” John confirmed as Sherlock let out a groan of frustration.  “Why do you always need me to do your Job, Lestrade?”

“Why do you always feel the need to attract trouble” was the response he was given, Johns confirmation of not being anyones boyfriend obviously being ignored.  

“Well, it will have to wait.  I told you, we have dinner reservations which we should be at, right now.”

At this the cop, _Lestrade_ , shot an amused glance at Sherlock.  “You’re having dinner?” he asked as if he believed the exact opposite of that statement.

“I would have thought that was fairly obvious since that is generally why one makes dinner reservations.”

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to John and when John didn’t dispute the fact ( _he really had no idea what was going on_ ) the amused look dropped away and he looked back to Sherlock.  “Right, well then, I guess I’ll see you after, then.”

“Tomorrow” Sherlock stated, turning away from Lestrade and making to leave the alley way.

“Tonight, Sherlock” Lestrade spat back, clearly frustrated.

“I’m busy tonight. Tomorrow” Sherlock called back, not even bothering to turn and look at the man.  “Come along, John.”

Startled at being called like a dog, but not wanting to miss spending time with this new man in his life, John offered a smile that said both _sorry_ and  _goodbye, it was nice to meet you_ to Lestrade and, cane forgotten, he quickly followed that perfect backside once more.

~o~

Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective, the only one in the world, in fact.  He could look at any person and pull them apart bit by bit and analyse everything from the way they walked, to the dirt in the crease of their thumb nail to the fact they were wearing no pants and he would use it all to pull every detail about them out into the open.  

And he knew that John lived across the road from him.

“I had noticed the flat had become occupied straight away” Sherlock announced around a mouthful of mushroom stuffed capsicum after informing John that he did actually live right across at 221 B Baker Street.  “But I didn’t see you until about three weeks later.  Then I sort of noticed you everywhere.  For someone who blends in quite well, you do a fair job of standing out.”

John decided to take the comment as a compliment and not dwell on the fact that the man across from him had basically stated he had the visual appeal of wallpaper.  Dull, unforgettable wallpaper.  

“You’re also not very discreet” Sherlock told him, his mouth no longer full of food.  When John looked up from his plate at him, it was to see a smug grin and a wicked twinkle to his eye.

“Excuse me?”  he asked, not at all sure what Sherlock had meant by the comment and feeling slightly off balance at the look he was giving him.

“Several times” Sherlock started, stopping to take a sip of wine before continuing, “I turned my head back to see who was following me and each time your eyes were diverted…down” on the last word his voice dropped and John could only swallow around the lump in his throat as his cheeks heated up.  

“Apparently you were so enraptured by whatever it was you were looking at, that you didn’t even notice I was looking at you.  Liked what you saw?”

When John didn’t reply, horribly mortified at the fact that he had been caught, multiple times, perving on the mans arse, Sherlock placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer to John and in a voice not much louder than a whisper and huskier than it had any right to be, said “I certainly did.”

Needless to say, dinner didn’t last much longer.  Once John had gotten over the shock that Sherlock actually didn’t think he looked like wallpaper it only took moments to convey that he too had enjoyed what he saw and then Sherlock was hauling him out to the sidewalk and waving down a taxi.

“221 Baker Street” Sherlock ordered, slamming the door shut.  “And I’ll double the fare if you get us there in under half the time.”

Within what felt like no longer than five minutes, but surely had to be more, the taxi was pulling up opposite Johns flat and Sherlock was hurling more than what John was sure was double the fare at the cabbie.  “Have a good night lads” the driver called out cheerfully as Sherlock yanked John out of the cab and started towards the black door of 221 Baker Street.  John had barely managed to slam the cab door shut before he was pulled along.

“Upstairs” Sherlock urged, pushing John inside and towards the stairs just in the entrance and John wasted no time at all following the order. 

By the time he had reached the top he turned to find that Sherlock had shed his jacket somewhere along the way and had already untucked his shirt and had started undoing the buttons from the bottom up.  “Kitchen table, blue bottle, go get it” he ordered as his fingers moved nimbly up his shirt, popping each of his already straining buttons.  ( _Seriously, it should be illegal to wear shirts that tight!_ )

“Are you always this bossy?” John asked, dropping his coat to the floor and making his way to the kitchen. 

“Only when I want something” came the reply from behind him, just as Johns eyes landed on a blue, nondescript bottle amongst other odd bits and pieces on the kitchen table ( _was that a mercury syringe?_ ).  John took less than three steps to reach the table and grab the bottle, quickly turning around to re-enter the living room.  “What is…”  The rest of the words died on his tongue.  In fact, at that moment John wasn’t even sure he could say the word ‘tongue’.  He’d have been hard pressed to recite the alphabet with the site that greeted him.  

In the short time that John had taken to retrieve the bottle from the kitchen, Sherlock had completely stripped off and had draped himself over the edge of the sofa, long body stretched along the cushions and that delicious rump exposed to the room, just as round and smooth and utterly beautiful as John had imagined it.  More so, even.

“It’s a concoction of my own making” Sherlock answered and John couldn’t believe how unfair it was at how calm and collected he sounded.  John was pretty sure he, himself was drawling.  “Not actually for this particular purpose, but I assure you, it is perfectly safe, so if you could find yourself to actually put it to use” and with that he gave his hips a little wiggle and John literally moaned at the sight.  

With not even a quarter of the grace that Sherlock had used, John made his way over to the couch, shedding his clothes on the way.  ( _He was quite proud at the fact that he had only stumbled once._ )  Once he was naked John dropped to his knees, ignoring the twinge in his bum ( _no pun intended_ ) leg in favour of focusing all of his attention on the sight before him, and Oh! What a sight it was.  

Placing the bottle on the floor next to him, John gingerly raised his hands to fit over the two globes before his face and gave them a gentle squeeze.  Sherlock responded by letting out a slow exhale and pushing back into Johns hands.  “I won’t break, John” he uttered, so quietly, John almost missed it.

“I know” John mused and slid his hands over the flesh, to the top of the rise, and then pulled his hands around the outer curves until he was cupping the bottom of each cheek in his hands.  He had fantasised about this bum for a while now, damned if he was going to rush into anything.  This was more than likely his one and only chance.  

John leant down and placed a kiss on one cheek and then on the other, the pads of his thumbs gently running up and down the lower half of the crack, just a ghost of a touch.  The skin was soft, softer than he had expected, and so smooth.  

“John, get on with it” Sherlock groused and John rewarded him by pinching the pale flesh with his left hand, causing the man to yelp.  Judging by the intake of breath Sherlock had taken, he was about to say something that wasn’t concurrent with the mood John wanted to set, so he placed his lips over the red that was now blossoming on the pale skin and left an open mouthed kiss.  “Shush” he said against the skin.  “Let me do this.”  At his words Sherlock seemed to soften a bit more and John knew he had won the battle, this time.  

John spent the next few moments, essentially worshipping Sherlocks bottom.  He lavished it with gentle touches, he praised it and he bestowed kisses upon every millimetre of its surface and the whole time the only noises Sherlock made where breathy whimpers as he tried non-verbally to entice John to do more which was fine by John because there was so, _so_ much more that he wanted to do to the ridiculous rump that was in his hands.

Once more John took a firm hold on Sherlocks arse and as he tightened his grip he slowly and carefully parted the two halves.

“Beautiful” he murmured and nuzzled the top of the cleft, gently grazing his barely-there stubble against the sensitive skin.  The sensation caused Sherlock to moan, deep and long.  “John” he gasped, his hips doing a small rotation.  John nuzzled for a second or two more and then pulled back only to move his head forwards again and, without any prior warning, licked a stripe from just below Sherlocks entrance all the way up his gluteal cleft.  The noise that came from the man under his hands was not at all expected.  It was high and wavering and ended on something that strongly resembled a sob, so John did the only thing that any one in his place would have done.  He repeated the action, this time dragging his tongue slower.  This time the noise was accompanied by Sherlock hitching his hips up, so his shoulders were lower than his backside.  It can’t have been comfortable for the man, but clearly he wanted more, so John, being the kind and giving sort of man that he was, did just that.  He licked one more stripe before focusing his attention on the tight furled hole that sat neatly between his thumps.  The skin here was darker and slightly wrinkled, covered by a smattering of fine, dark hairs and the scent of soap, musk, sweat and something that could only be described as _Sherlock_ could be detected.  At that time, in that moment, it was most amazing thing John Watson had ever smelt in his life and without any further ado, he placed his lips around the pucker and then used his tongue to swirl around the out rim.  

If the noise that Sherlock had made before enticed John to continue, then the noises he was making now made John want to not ever stop.  Between the panting and the whimpering Sherlock managed to gasp out John’s name every now and then as his tongue swirled and dipped and lapped, his lips kissing and sucking and just as Sherlock was on the verge of becoming completely incoherent John pointed his tongue and thrust in, pushing as far as he could and wriggling his tongue about.

“ _Johhhnnnnnng_ ” was the whining noise that came out of Sherlock as he push he rear back, desperately trying to get more.  “ _Hmmmnnn…don’….huhhhh, god, Joh…Johnhaa…”_

John took it all as encouragement to continue.  He pulled his tongue out, only to thrust it back in over and over again, swirling it around.  His hands held Sherlock open, allowing him to get as deep as possible. 

Suddenly there was a hand, nudging Johns left one out of the way, replacing his, holding Sherlock open as Sherlock managed to get out brokenly, “Mm-ore J…John.”

John pulled back, just a bit and using the saliva that now coated Sherlocks beautiful behind, he slicked his finger and pushed it into the mans now slightly looser hole.  

“Tongue” Sherlock managed to pant out, as his lower back arched in at the intrusion of Johns fingers, a small hiss of what John hoped was pleasure whistling through his teeth as John pushed into the third knuckle.  With a very self-satisfied grin, John thrust his finger in a few times, twisting it once or twice and then leant forwards, once more, and reinserted his tongue, next to his finger.  It didn’t take long before John could get a second finger in and he stretched Sherlock, wanting him open enough to fuck him without any pain or discomfort.  Just the thought alone, of sliding into the tight heat that was currently clenching around his tongue and fingers was enough to make him moan, the vibrations of the sound obviously doing good things, as Sherlock keened louder and John, despite the awkward angle his hand was at, bent his fingers up, locating Sherlocks prostate and swiped over it twice.  Suddenly Sherlocks back was arching down, his muscles tightening greatly around John and a loud cry filled the room as his hips stuttered back towards John, once - twice, as Sherlock let out a great heaving sob as shivers seemed to wrack his body and it dawned on John that the man was in the throes of orgasms as his body jerked once more.  Very gently, John withdrew his fingers and then his tongue and a small mewling sound came from Sherlock as he dropped down, half hanging off the couch, his back lifting and falling as he took in great heaving gulps of air.

As much as John would have loved to have sat there and watched Sherlock slowly put himself back together again after being pulled apart, quite thoroughly by himself, he had more urgent matters to see to.  Like his rock hard cock, which had been completely neglected up until now.  A low groan rumbled in the back of Johns throat as he wrapped his hand around himself, fingers still slick from his saliva, adding to the pre-come that had already amassed at the tip and dribbled down the shaft.   At the sound of the groan, Sherlock seemed to come back to himself and before John knew he was being manhandled to the ground, his head narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table as he was pushed back onto the rug.  

“John Watson” Sherlock growled, straddling Johns thighs and pulling Johns hand away from his erection to replace it with his own and if John hadn’t already claimed Sherlocks arse as his most favourite body part on the man, then the hands were a close second.  His long fingers fit perfectly around John, knew exactly what they were doing, apply and releasing pressure at the perfect time, gliding smoothly along his length.  His thumb moved automatically and seamlessly over the crown of Johns cock on every other upstroke and his wrists did this wonderful little twist that almost sent John over the edge every time.  “You are a marvel.”

John could only give a short nod in agreeance, not that he really knew what he was agreeing to as he was too busy trying to continue breathing as a tight bubble of pleasure continued to expand, threatening to pop at any time.  John could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, ready to step over any time, but it wasn’t until Sherlock leant down and placed his lips over Johns, thrusting his tongue into Johns mouth and groaning out a resemblance of Johns name, that John was able to tip forward and let go.  The orgasm barraged through him like a tidal wave, crashing to the surface and ebbing, just a bit, before pulsing through him again as he came over Sherlocks hands and onto his stomach.  A noise was ripped from his throat, but he wasn’t sure what it was as all he could hear was the sound of blood rushing through his ears and then there was silence.  Blissful silence as his body came down from the single most intense orgasm he had ever had, and it was just from Sherlocks hand.  John could only imagine what state he would be in had he actually got around to fucking the man.

That thought suddenly left a feeling that completely chased away the sheer euphoria he had been feeling only seconds before.  

This was it.  Surely once they were not so lethargic and had composed themselves a bit, Sherlock would tell John thank you.  After all, what would someone as interesting and gorgeous as him want with John.  A boring, broken, ex-army doctor?  John took this for what it was.  An infatuation for the strange man he had seen following him about and a thank you for saving his life.  John was no longer anybody’s choice for a longterm relationship, especially not someone like Sherlock Holmes.

“Stop thinking, John” Sherlock mumbled as he dropped to the floor next to John, his long arm draping over Johns stomach as he seemed to settle against Johns side, his head resting on Johns shoulder.  “Whatever crisis you are currently going through leave until tomorrow.  Now, it is just ruining the mood.”

“Who said anything about a crisis?  And we might want to get up before this stuff turns disgusting”  John said, running a finger through the semen that was coating his belly.  “Well, at least more disgusting then what it is now.”

Sherlock just hummed against Johns shoulder.  “You went from ridiculously happy and smug looking to a rather concerned looking frown in the span of 1.6 seconds.  Clearly you have no compunctions about being with a man, you knew exactly what you were doing therefore have done so beforehand, so it’s not a sexuality crisis, but something is clearly bothering you.  Whatever it is you can worry about it tomorrow.”

John noted that he didn’t comment on the mess, nor seem very inclined to get up off of John so they could clean said mess.  John decided to let it go.  After all, it wasn’t like they were going to spend the rest of the night on the floor.  They would get up eventually.

With a deep inhale, John let his hand rest against the small of Sherlocks back as he stretched his other arm out, not wanting his shoulder to cramp up from being on a hard uncomfortable surface.  As he did, his hand hit something small and cylindrical in shape and it rolled off to the side.  He angled his head up to see what it was only to find that the small blue bottle of Sherlocks home made lubricating concoction had been kicked to the side sometime during the nights proceedings.

“We didn’t use the lube” he stated flatly, more for something to say than to inform Sherlock of something he was more than likely very aware of.

“I wasn’t expecting you to use your tongue so skilfully that it would be rendered unnecessary” Sherlock replied somewhat sleepily.

A small smile tipped the corners of Johns mouth.  He got the impression Sherlock wasn’t so easily taken off guard.  “So, surprised then?”

“Pleasantly so” was the answer as Sherlock burrowed further against Johns side, and John was getting a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock may actually have plans for spending the rest of the night on the floor.  “But you seem to do that a bit, apparently.”

That wasn’t what John was expecting to hear.  “Hmm, how so?”

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock pulled away and sat up and looked down at John.  John instantly missed the warmth that the other man had provided.

“Despite knowing that your limp was at least partly, if not completely psychosomatic, you still managed to keep pace with me whenever you saw me in the streets.  You even followed me when I purposely took extra turns to get home and picked up pace whenever I did.”  John blinked a few times.  He hadn’t been aware that he had been following Sherlock that closely, let alone matching pace.  “It was all very subtle as I didn’t want to draw your attention to the fact that I knew you were following me, not that you realised you were doing it, especially since we were generally headed in the same direction anyway” Sherlock clarified, apparently able to see Johns confusion.  “Then you took out a man who was clearly dangerous, just to save my life despite knowing nothing about me.  You handled yourself wonderfully when keeping the man subdued until Lestrade arrived and didn’t even think about rejecting my offer of dinner.  You weren’t boring throughout dinner and even managed to make me genuinely laugh twice.  You then proceeded to accompany me home, despite the fact that I was rude and demanding from the second I met you and do I really need to explain how utterly mind blowing the sex was?”  John didn’t answer.  He knew it had been good but to hear from Sherlocks mouth was really more than a bit of an ego boost.  “For god sake John.  I came without you even touching my penis.  I knew you had a fascination with my arse, but I never, in a million years, would have expected you to be so enthusiastic, or so talented, at rimming.  So yes, pleasantly surprised.  Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because…” John stopped.  He didn’t want to voice why he believed he wasn’t worth Sherlocks time.  Saying it out loud would sound more pathetic than reciting it in his head and no-one liked people who wallowed in self pity.

Sherlock peered down at John with a curious expression on his face.  “You really don’t know how interesting you are, do you?”  

“I’m really not” John replied.

“Hmm” Sherlock hummed, thoughtfully.  “We’ll see about that.”

John studied the narrow gaze that Sherlock was giving him and the thought that maybe Sherlock really did think him interesting, even just a bit, sparked a warm feeling in his chest.  

Without any warning, the thoughtful look dropped from Sherlocks face and he flopped back down to the floor, draping himself over John once more.

“Now, do you think we could nap for a bit.  You need to restore your energy.”

John wriggled around until he found a position that allowed Sherlock to keep his head on Johns shoulder wile being marginally comfortable for John.  “Why?”

“Because I have plans for that lube that will involve you thoroughly buggering me as soon as we are both rested.”

John bit back a bark of laughter at the forthrightness of the man.  “So, no real point in cleaning up then.”

Sherlock draped his leg over John’s and pulled in closer.  “Not really, no so please shut up and let me sleep.  I like to sleep after sex.  You might want to keep that in mind as I do have a tendency to not sleep for days on end if left to my own devices.”  Sherlock ended his little speech with a yawn and shifted his head until his nose was buried in the junction where Johns shoulder and neck met.

John let Sherlock settle against him and together they lay in silence, John running his hand absently across Sherlocks lower back and Sherlock breathing deeply as he slept on John and a small smile curved Johns mouth up as Sherlocks words sunk in.  This wasn’t just a one off.  

With an even bigger and goofier grin, John rest his cheek against Sherlocks mussed curls and let his hand travel down over the swell of Sherlocks derrière and let it rest there where it stayed as he drifted off to sleep, until he was woken, several hours later in a most pleasant manner.

 


End file.
